Murder Scenes
by marlexfarley
Summary: A serial killer is loose in London, but they may be more clever than Sherlock anticipated. Rated M to be safe. My first fic, please R&R!


"Well, John?" Sherlock asked, walking around the body and staring at it. I was staring, as was Lestrade.

"Oh, sorry," I said, and walked next to the dead man, examining him. He barely looked like a man, rather more like a white, punctured sac. "Well, there are numerous stab wounds…"

"How many?" he said as if the answer was vital.

"I've lost count, Sherlock. At least five." I paused to give him an annoyed look. "Inflicted with at least five different objects, probably all knives. Though…"

"What? What is it?"

"Some wounds were inflicted when he was alive, some when he was dead."

"That's exactly what I said!" Molly said, grinning. She had been standing in the corner, arms folded, staring at Sherlock. It was pathetic, really.

He didn't look at her. "Yes, thank you, Molly. I could use some coffee. Black, two sugars. Thanks."

Her face immediately fell, and she walked out of the morgue muttering something. I put my hand to my forehead, shook my head, and saw Lestrade watching me. He shrugged.

"Right," Sherlock said, putting his hands in his pockets. "I'll text you if I've got something." He walked out, and I shrugged to Lestrade as I followed.

After a silent cab ride, where Sherlock played on his phone, and I tried (without success) to ascertain what exactly he was typing, we stepped out in front of 221B, and I noticed that the upstairs window was illuminated. Sherlock must have guessed my thoughts because I heard him mutter, "Mycroft."

As we entered the flat, Mycroft stood up from the armchair slowly, as if he couldn't really be bothered, and before I had the chance to even say "Hello", Sherlock asked, "What do you want this time?"

The older man smiled. "You didn't find the case interesting?"

"Pedestrian, really. Even Lestrade seemed unenthused; I can't see why you told him to call me."

This looked like a long conversation, so I decided to go make myself a cup of tea and let them carry on.

"John?" It was Mycroft. "I'll have one too, if you don't mind." I shuddered for a second. It was enough that Sherlock could tell anything about a person by their outward appearance – I had almost gotten used to it. But the way his brother could practically read minds, without even looking at me? It would take a while. My hearing seemed to have stopped for a few seconds until I began to eavesdrop.

"I can see the diet's not going well."

"It's going perfectly fine."

"You've put on three and a half pounds since I last saw you…"

"Don't make me order you, Sherlock."

"I'd really like to see you try."

"Man was MI5, really a paper pusher, but I've promised I'll investigate."

"How nice of you to turn it over to me then."

By this time, I'd gotten the mugs out, but when I opened the tea container, there was no tea. Instead there was tobacco. I thought for a moment that it could be an experiment, but this idea quickly subsided in the favor of throwing it in the bin, since Sherlock said he had quit cigarettes – tobacco was not far off. As soon as I closed the bin, which smelled like decaying flesh (which may have been the truth), I heard Sherlock say, "John! That was the beginning of a month-long experiment!"

I poked my head out from the kitchen, but Mycroft spoke before I could. "Perhaps he thought any _experiment _with a drug was a bad idea." He smiled at his brother, which was returned with a glare. "Well, I'd best be off. The jet awaits." Sherlock hadn't moved; he was still staring. "Good-bye John."

"Good-bye," I said, watching the man lean on his umbrella as he walked down the stairs.

Entirely abandoning the tea idea, I sat down in the chair Mycroft had recently abandoned and reached for one of the newspapers littering the floor. "You taking the case then?"

"Hmm?"

"The murder."

"Oh, that." He was staring off into space, with his palms together, chin resting on fingertips. "We'll just have to wait."

"Wait? For what?"

"For him to kill again."

"How do you know he will?"

"It's obviously the work of a serial killer. Or at least organized by one."

I put down the paper so the pages were on my lap. "How could you possibly tell that, just from the body?"

He smiled as if he'd received a much-anticipated invitation. "How could it escape my notice? The manner in which he was killed – must have been planned far in advance. All those stab wounds could indicate a strong motivation for murder – revenge, perhaps? – and the innumerable stab wounds seem to suggest this as well, were it not for the variety."

"I don't see…"

"Well of course you did! Five different impaled objects, no one would carry all those around if they just wanted to kill him, wouldn't go through the trouble. Five different assailants? Unlikely, I think at this point. Even if there were five murderers, they were organized by one person. One plotter."

"Why does that one person have to be a serial killer?"

I never got an answer, since he furrowed his brow, grabbed his violin and bow and started scraping the bow over the strings, making horrid noises like a cat coughing up hair. I stared at him, but it was evident that he was lost in thought. I went back to my newspaper.

It seemed like an eternity that Sherlock had been mercilessly assaulting his instrument when his phone rang. I exhaled. Finally some quiet.

"Sherlock Holmes." He smiled. "Wonderful…we'll be right there." We locked eyes. "He's struck again. Yes!" It was almost indecent how excited he looked as he scooped up his scarf. "The _game_, John, is on!"


End file.
